Tuesday Night

A few weeks ago, my writers’ group meeting ended in a flurry. Not unusual. Sometimes we started late but, “Sorry, I just can’t stay,” created a stampede towards the door. Sometimes we chatted too much squandering large lumps of valuable time.  I always had something I wanted to say before we left, and even when I saw that “Oh why doesn’t she shut up already?” eyebrow arch, I never could stop. Last time we didn’t have time to pick the topic for tomorrow’s meeting. Since it was going to be at my place, I had the privilege of choosing whatever I wanted.

I put off thinking about it for several days. I was having too much fun arranging my old books in my new hand-me-down bookcases and cleaning up a special writing space in my bedroom. A sweet little writing desk purchased at the Habitat for Humanity ReStore. An old lamp dragged along because it might be useful one day. A small plant in a ceramic pot my sister made for me. I arranged it all in front of my bedroom window where I could see tall oak trees and overgrown white pines and behind them, way down below, a glimpse of the Farmington River when the sun hit it at just the right angle in the later afternoon. I could never have imagined that peaceful feeling in this quiet corner of Avon. And there it was … the prompt … “Imagination.”

I planned to write a grand little story. Not a story actually … more like a sketch … or maybe a willowy prose poem or even a piece of doggerel about … what?  A gaggle of geese!

I wasted a lot of time considering the pros and cons of these unfortunate creatures. With all their beauty in flight and silly waddle on land … despite their loyal guardianship at the farmer’s gate, flapping their wings and honking to keep his home safe from intruders … no matter all their virtues, people simply cannot tolerate geese because they poop. Dirty, filthy creatures. On the other hand, consider what would happen if we were in the same position. Unimaginable! I had this fanciful image and it was just a question of which way to go with it. No hurry. It would wait until after my morning at the temple.

Every Tuesday, the Seniors for Art, Growth and Education (SAGE) meet at Congregation Beth Israel. The format is always the same. A group discussion as an appetizer, a modest lunch, a guest speaker for dessert.

Today was a special treat. Watch a film, grab a quick salad and then an hour to discuss what we had seen. Roberta had volunteered to provide both the vorspeise and the nachspeise. SAGE took care of the meal. What could be better?

Roberta chose “The Reader,” a movie based on the novel written by the German lawyer and author, Bernhard Schlink. I know the movie. I’ve seen it at least three times before. I read the book years ago. This little book is a gem, a multi-layered story that sparked the birth of this thoughtful film.

Our discussion was lively, passionate. Each person in the room tried to convince everyone else of the film’s meaning. What was Schlink trying to say? Was this a misguided love affair? Why had the forty-year-old Hanna seduced the fifteen-year-old Michael? Had she destroyed his life? Was that what she was trying to do? Why pick him? Why call him “kid” all the time? And if he was a kid for real, why didn’t his parents stop him?

We argued over why she turned down the promotion from bus conductor to office clerk. No one agreed why she cried in church. We couldn’t even agree why she always let Michael choose the outings or the lunch or the books.

Underlying all the questions and doubts about his character and her motives, was the need to figure out who Hanna Schmitz really was. She taught Michael the passion and joy of sexual love. In return, she wanted Michael to read to her. It was a brief affair, only a few weeks one summer. What was the meaning of all that?

Year later, when Michael was in law school, he attended a trial of six women who had acted as SS guards at Auschwitz. Hanna, his Hanna, had performed honorably there doing her best to fulfill all the duties assigned her. She did not see the problem. Should could not imagine what she had done wrong. It was during the trial that Michael discovered the source of Hanna’s thirst for books and with it, a reader. Hanna could neither read nor write. Her life had been shaped by this undeniable misfortune.

What was Schlink saying? Was she an evil torturer or, perhaps, a victim? Or both? Could anyone understand the depths of depravity she had reached? And what about the law? Was she complicit in the crime? What was her intent?

There are so many questions in this tragedy. In my own mind, I believe that Hanna Schmitz committed crimes any one of us might have committed. Hannah Arendt in her book “Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil” has surely demonstrated, that anyone can be coerced into doing anything given the right circumstances and the wrong leader.

I was passionate in the belief that “The Reader” deals with more universal problems than just the Nazi regime in Europe. It deals with guilt. It deals with the loss of innocence but not merely on a sexual level. It deals with inherited guilt that comes when we first realize that the ones we loved when we were young, were monsters long before we knew them. It deals with responsibility and guilt transferred from father to son.

When I looked at what I wrote I saw the words “just the Nazi regime. Just the Nazi regime? What an outrageous phrase to choose! Why should I even try to explain an idea that is, in itself, unthinkable. It is a battle I will never win. A battle I do not wish to win. I should have known better. Shame on you, Martha. How could I let my brain carry my heart away? What was I thinking?

We’ve all heard the stories, watched the films and counted the bodies being thrown into pits and covered by lime. As if that could destroy or hide the atrocity. The unimaginable sights … ovens in camps now swept clean so people can dare to walk through … the filthy remains of rancid, swinish actions.

Piles of clothes, sacks of gold fillings, walls of photos … men women children … tattoos … and a mountain of children’s shoes with a ragged doll buried underneath.

We try to forget but of course that would be like forgiving. We must not forget. But in our compassion we try to imagine what it was like for nine million souls … almost a million children

Tell me, how does one imagine the unimaginable?

Martha Reingold
June, 2017